As the excitement builds up in the commercial world for Mother’s Day, the suspense of how well my progeny will repay me for another year of self-sacrifice and doormat behaviour is almost killing me.
Actually…not so much.
Because the thing about Mother’s Day, if you have normal kids, is there’s only the tiniest glimmer of hope you’ll actually enjoy the day if you throw away all expectation. Forget all that sentimental garbage, like how much you do for them – like men, their brains aren’t fully formed yet; they aren’t programmed to think like us or consider the benefits of giving to receive or vice versa.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that my offspring don’t love me, but I know that they won’t fully appreciate me until they have their own kids to torture them.
Back in the day when the kids were under-twelve and still loved me unconditionally, I’d have to bite my quivering lip year after year and feign to be overjoyed at some travesty to craft where the glue still wasn’t dry that their teacher made them knock up so I didn’t give her a hard time at parents evening.
But once they reach their teens, (and in spite of the ridiculous hope that now they are adults all that stuff you taught them about gratitude, giving, appreciation of others, responsibility and love has made a connection somewhere), it’s probably best for your well-being if you try and manage your expectations.
I know for a fact that my presents on Mother’s Day will be a bigger let-down than Spanx and sugar-free chocolate. Sure, the old man might organize a family dinner out of guilt, and even allow us dessert as it’s a special occasion, but the kids will forget about the importance of the day until 24 hours before and even though I will promise myself not to be disappointed, the hormones are frankly so over the shop at the moment, that’s unlikely.
They’ll go through the motions to get me excited and request a list of what I’d like them to buy me. They always do. And I always get all excited and provide them with the most detailed list to include the name of shop, cost, photo image, Taiwanese stamp and even reference number, so that NOTHING can possible go wrong.
But it will…
Because they will ignore it and buy me the first thing they see, or what suits their budget or heaven forbid, what THEY think I’ll like.
God, I’ve had some stinkers over the past few years. Kurt’s ketchup gun still tops the list.
In the kids’ defence, I admit to being a fussy, cantankerous perfectionist who can’t really be pleased. And I’m not proud of this – I am middle-aged with a lifetime of disappointment behind me after all.
Which is why I don’t know why they don’t just BUY FROM THE FUCKING LIST!
So, here it is, kids, just in case you decide to do the right thing for once in your pathetic little lives to make your tired old mama super-happy and eternally grateful for having the best kids in the world:
- Any lingerie from Calvin Klein
- Anything from Peter Alexander
- Anything from Seed
- Anything from Jo Malone
- Jewellery – anything from Swarovsky, or Witchery if Dad’s moaning
- Cookery Book – Jamie Oliver, Curtis Stone or anything with recipes with less than four ingredients
- Flowers –LILLIES, because I like LILLIES – not half-dead fucking chrysanthemums that looked like they’ve been chewed by the dog before you gave them to me
- Chocolate – dark, Belgian and fully loaded with salted caramel, marzipan, cherries…
Can I ask for Chris Hemsworth again?